


A Ghost From The Past

by MyPoisonedHeart



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Kidnapping, M/M, Murder, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Suicide Attempt, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-25
Updated: 2012-08-10
Packaged: 2017-11-10 16:36:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/468409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyPoisonedHeart/pseuds/MyPoisonedHeart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There are things about Sherlock that you don't know, John, Things that even Sherlock doesn't know about himself. Moments of his life he doesn't remember...well, moments that he chose not to remember."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Ghost From The Past 1/5

Chapter 1 

Numbing cold, blinding darkness, deafening silence, pain…more pain than he could endure. He feels lost, broken, helpless and simply empty.

There is no sound that could climb up his chest, he’d screamed until his voice was completely lost in the darkness, sadly he knows it would be useless, no one would hear him. No one would help him.

His mind, desperately trying to preserve itself, shut down almost completely. He wasn’t that boy chained to a wall. That was someone else, not him. It couldn't be him. It was just a nightmare. A product of his restless mind. He knows he’s lying to himself, he knows it because the pain makes it real. Oh, so real.

He hears the door open and sees a shadow slither across the room towards him; catching the glimpse of a syringe on the man’s hand as he closes the door behind him.

He closed his eyes, waiting for the pain to start. 

 

“Sherlock…” John’s soft voice floated in the air along the beams of sunlight that fell across the wooden floor. “Are you alright?” He sounded concerned. 

“Yes, John…I’m fine.” He said coldly, taking a deep breath, scanning the room with his serpentine eyes. The room smelled like dust, old books and sun warmed wood, and of course, blood. He walked around and the floor boards creaked under his weight. 

“Blake Rushford, 57 years old, School teacher. No sign of forced entry, apparent cause of death…someone cut his heart out. There are no suspects, no clues. Please tell me you have something.” Lestrade explained, rubbing his forehead, trying to sooth his nerves. He looked at Sherlock, who was looking around the place; strangely, in the 6 years he has known Sherlock, he has never seen that look on his face before. It was somehow, out of place.

Sherlock kneeled next to the body and grabbed the corpse’s face, getting a good look at it, he smiled. A smile that none of them has ever seen before; it froze their blood. Seconds later, Sherlock let out a bone-chilling laugh and backed away, standing in a swift move to walk out the place. John and Lestrade exchanged looks; Watson shook his head, saying that he didn’t understand either.

Without a minute of delay, John ran after Sherlock, he was used to his friend running out without a word, but this was  
different, something was wrong, he could feel it.

“Sherlock!” He shouted for his friend to stop, but he didn't, he kept on half-running, half-walking. He jumped into a cab and left John behind. Instead of being angry, John felt…scared.

He stopped another cab a few minutes later and it took him about an hour and a half to get back home. He walked into the living room and found Sherlock, half-sitting, half-curled into a ball on the couch, he was sleeping. He thought about waking him, but he knew he had been awake for the past 2 days. He needed some sleep.  
John grabbed his laptop and sat on the other side of the room, quietly, writing on his blog. The minutes passed and John continued answering some emails, looking up from the screen to check on his friend. Sherlock started to toss and turn uneasily, he looked like he was having a nightmare. Sherlock was never a quiet sleeper, he was always moving and mumbling stuff. John knew that his friend's mind never let him in peace, and Watson felt kind of sorry for him. 

John put down his laptop on the floor and crossed the room with a few long strides. “Sherlock?” He shook his shoulder gently and waited for his friend to wake up. Sherlock opened his eyes slowly; Confusion flashing on his eyes for a second, disappearing as soon as his eyes fixed on john. “Are you sure you’re okay?” He insisted again.

“No…” That was his only response; he got up from the couch and, literally, dragged himself to the kitchen. He searched under the table and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, John was about to say something but Sherlock shoot him a warning glare that glued him to his place. He grabbed a plastic lighter from the table above him, lighting the cigarette as he ran his hand through his hair. “Now…now, I’m ok.” He inhaled the smoke in one deep breath. “And Lestrade has proved to be a lot more of an idiot than I thought he was.” He kept on smoking on the floor, eyes fixed on the window, with his knees close to his chest. His face was strangely…blank; his face looked a lot more like a mask than a normal face.

John took a deep breath and ignored the insult to their friend, kneeling near Sherlock, keeping a safe distance, just to be sure. “What do you mean he is an idiot?” 

Sherlock let out a huff, and kept his face the same way. “That wasn't even Blake...Rushford…it’s someone else, his brother to be more precise.” He took a long drag from the cigarette and let out what sounded like a bitter laugh.  
“How do you…?” John asked but he was interrupted by Sherlock, who threw his lighter at the wall; it crashed against it and shattered, leaving a mark on the wall. 

“Because I know it wasn’t him! Because the real Rushford it’s right here, in this flat, with us.” Sherlock laughed and stood up in a swift move. 

John's stomach almost hit the ground and he stared at Sherlock for a second before asking. “What?”

“Don’t you see him John? He’s in the living room and you know him very well. Think, John, THINK!” Sherlock shouted, his face contorted by rage.

John took a step back, scared from the sudden outburst of anger; still, even though he knew he wouldn't find anything he looked around the living room, his eyes falling on the skull above the fireplace. “Oh! That…it’s a friend of mine…why do I say friend?” He recalled Sherlock saying. He turned around and saw Sherlock sitting on the couch, staring at the floor blankly.

It took him a little while to be able to speak again. “So…you’re telling me that you…have the skull of that man’s brother… You knew him?...When he was alive I mean?” 

Sherlock didn’t answer; he was just staring at the floor, quietly.

“I need to think…” He mumbled and simply walked out the flat. 

The evening passed and Sherlock didn’t come back, John was beyond worried. A few minutes before midnight, John simply couldn't take it anymore. He knew Sherlock needed some space for some reason, but that was ridiculous, he grabbed his phone and tried to call his sociopath friend.

After a few minutes, he gave up, he knew Sherlock wouldn’t answer and fear started to boil inside his chest. What if something happened to him? Sherlock wasn't acting like himself lately; suddenly he started growing quieter, colder and simply becoming more distant. 

Before he could think of worst scenarios, his phone rang with a text.

“I’m fine, John. I’ll be home later. –SH”

“Later…when is later? Very specific, Holmes, very specific.” John rubbed his forehead.

The next morning, John woke up on his chair; He waited up all night for Sherlock, but his friend never came home. He checked the bedroom and saw that the bed was untouched. He went to the kitchen to boil some tea and as he was filling the kettle, he heard the door open.

“Sherlock!” He heard who he thought was Lestrade shouting from the stairs.

“I’m up here.” John shouted back, slightly disappointed, he was hoping to see his friend.

“Ah! Dr.Watson.” Lestrade came in to the kitchen, closing the door behind him. He looked tired.” Is Sherlock here?” He asked simply.

“ No…He’s not. He’s been out since last night.” He said, not taking his eyes from the kettle.

“Do you have any idea where he is?” Lestrade sounded even more tired and a little desperate.

“No…and I don’t know when he will be back…”He poured two cups of tea.

“Did he say something about the case?” Lestrade sat on the kitchen stool.

John thought a second about telling him about Sherlock’s little outburst, but he decided against it. “No…he didn’t say anything. Have you tried calling him?”

“About a million times now, but he doesn’t answer, not even the texts. This case is getting stranger every minute. Turns out that the dead guy isn’t Blake, apparently it’s his brother. The real Blake Rushford has been missing for the last 10 years or so. I really need Sherlock to help us. ” He explained as he took the second cup of tea from John's hand.

John let out sigh; something was wrong…very wrong. He looked at the skull on the fireplace and shiver ran down his back. What if Sherlock had something to do with that?

His phone rang in his pocket, startling him, he looked at the name on the screen, it was Sherlock…calling. John answered as soon as he saw the name on the screen.

“Sherlock? Is everything okay?” He breathe out .

A few seconds of silence later, John heard Sherlock take a deep breath.

“This is important John, so listen carefully.” He paused for a moment and continued. “Blake’s brother, Robert, took his place a long time ago to save himself from a money problem; There has been a robbery in that house, three days ago. The thief's name is Louis Hunt, he lives in Cardiff. He stole the jewels from the safe box and probably bumped into Robert, either he killed him and escaped or he knows the killer. Cutting the man's heart out is way to violent, tedious and way too personal. It looked more like a vengeance..." Sherlock's voice trailed off, a second later he took a deep breath and continued."Someone must have killed him as a payback, probably the same people that he owed money.Tell Lestrade everything I just told you.“ Sherlock finished and waited for John to explain everything to the DI. John hesitated for a second, Sherlock sounded like he was withholding something from him.

John told everything to Lestrade, trying not to let his doubt show. Lestrade immediately called to the station and informed to the situation. 

"Thank you, John. And thank Sherlock, Tell him I will keep him informed of what we find there." The Inspector got up from the stool and drank the last of his tea, waving goodbye to John as he ran out to his car.

The doctor checked his phone, Sherlock was still there. 

“Where are you?” John didn’t want to sound so concerned but he couldn’t help it; besides he already knew that Sherlock knew he was worried.

“I’m close by…” That was all he answered. His voice sounded…empty and sort of lifeless. That wasn't Sherlock’s voice after he solved a case…actually…that was never how Sherlock’s voice sounded.

“Are you o…?” Before he could finish his question, Sherlock interrupted.

“YES! I’M FINE.” He shouted at the other end of the line.

“Okay…Okay…Are you coming back soon?” John was desperate to see him.

“No…not yet.” His voice sounded like an echo. After those words, he hanged up, without saying goodbye.  
“God damn it! Sherlock!” He shouted to the empty line.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a second, the night, on the other hand, passed slowly, slower than it should actually be.

Watson fell asleep again in the couch, waiting. He woke up when Mrs. Hudson asked him if he wanted some tea. He agreed and stretched on the couch, getting up. His feet automatically taking him to Sherlock’s bedroom, he opened the door slowly, and to his surprise he found Sherlock there. He was lying on the bed, on top of the covers, fully clothed. John walked in as silently as he could. Sherlock’s back was facing him, he walked around the bed to see his face and saw, to his horror, that Sherlock was actually awake; but he was just lying there, staring at the wall, not moving.  
“Sherlock?” He asked as softly as he could, trying not to upset him.

He didn’t answer; he just stared at the wall, completely still. John leaned forward to check his pulse. His friend was deadly still and yet, his heart was beating as quickly as a rabbit's; as soon as the doctor’s finger touched his neck, his breath quickened, He looked like he was in shock.

“Sherlock?!” He said, shaking his shoulder. Sherlock blinked a few times, unfocused. He looked at John's direction but he seemed to look right through him; His eyes seemed to grow deadly tired in a second and his eyelids started to drop. Knowing his friend, John knew perfectly that he didn't eat or slept at all on the past few days. “Sherlock? What’s wrong?” He asked softly, lifting Sherlock’s face. John looked at him in the eye and saw something in them, something he always thought he would never see there, Fear. 

“I’m so cold…” Sherlock mumbled his eyes unfocused. He curled into a ball and buried his face on the pillow.

John moved off the bed and stood there, watching his friend for a second. What in the name of hell happened to Sherlock?

He heard Mrs. Hudson calling him; he took a deep breath and saw that Sherlock was asleep now. John took off Sherlock’s shoes and though a second about taking off his coat as well, but he figured Sherlock would feel warmer with it. Instead, he grabbed the blankets and covered his friend's body, touching his shoulder for a second and when he realized that Sherlock was actually shivering. John heard him mumbling something, so he moved forward to hear more clearly.

“P-please…Don’t hurt me…”Sherlock begged in a whisper.

John froze in his place, seeing a small tear ran down Sherlock’s face. Murderous anger started to boil inside him, he was going to get to the bottom of all that, no matter what. Whoever made Sherlock like that was going to pay.


	2. A Ghost From The Past 2/5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There are things about Sherlock that you don't know, John, Things that even Sherlock doesn't know about himself. Moments of his life he doesn't remember...well, moments that he chose not to remember."

John immediately stormed out Sherlock's bedroom, he was confused beyond believe. As far as he knows,Sherlock has been: Beaten up, choked, held at gun point and many others near-to-death experiences before and he had never heard him beg, he didn't even seemed affected by them later. That voice was something he never expected to hear coming from Sherlock at all; He sounded so broken and scared in just three words he whispered.

"Is He awake?" Mrs. Hudson asked as soon as he entered the kitchen, she was cooking some lunch for the both of them.

John shook his head, he didn't said a word, he just walked to the living room and sat on the couch, burying his face on his hands. He knew asking Sherlock in his current state would be useless, by the look on his eyes, John could tell that his friend was completely and absolutely absent.  
He was used to Sherlock not talking for days, like he warned him before, that was normal, it was just Sherlock being Sherlock, but this...this was different and it scared him. "Ah! Control yourself Watson," He whispered to himself, taking a deep breath. He needed to think."Think Watson, Think." He tried to remember a case, where things got too rough on Sherlock but he couldn't recall anything. This must be older, something that happened maybe a long time ago."Mycroft..." He whispered in realization. Maybe his brother would be able to help him, it was very unlikely but at least he could give him a hint, something to start looking for.

"Mrs.Hudson! I'm going out. When Sherlock wakes up, please! make him eat something. And amm... if he's acting strange...well, stranger than usual, please call me. I'll be back in a couple of hours maybe." He said while he grabbed his keys and jacket. Mrs. Hudson looked confused but she understood that he didn't have time to explain. He walked towards the door, stopping for a second in front of Sherlock's half-closed door; he secretly wished for his friend to walk out that door being the same pain in the ass like he'd always been.

He walked out the flat and hailed a cab, after giving the driver the address he looked out the car window, up to the window of their flat and as the car drove away he caught a glimpse of what looked like Sherlock staring out the window, maybe he imagined it. Sherlock’s voice kept playing over and over in his mind. What could have happened to him? All he knew was that it must have been something really, really, really bad. And if it was bad, physically at least, he might find out about it on Sherlock’s medical records. Watson grabbed his phone and called someone that, he knew, could help. Maybe he should go for the records first and then go to see Mycroft. Knowing the weird secrets those two keep, he might won't even get a straight answer from his friend's brother.  
“Molly? Yes, it’s me...John, Hey I need a favor…Could you get me Sherlock’s medical records?” He asked, obviously he knew that if it was to help Sherlock, she would say yes. “Molly, this is very important. I need you to help me with this.”

“O-ok I’ll do my best.” Molly mumbled at the other side of the line.

He told the driver, as soon as he hanged up, to go to St.Bart's instead of the original address. A few minutes later the cab stopped in front of the hospital and right there in the lobby was Molly sitting nervously on one of the chairs, and standing next to her was Mycroft. She looked up at John and stutter an apology.

"Sherlock's records are protected by the government...sorry, as soon as I tried to pull them out of the record office, He called me and..." She said in one breath, pointing at Mycroft over her shoulder. she was about to keep explained but Mycroft spoke first.

"May I ask, Doctor, Why do you want my brother's medical records? Is he Okay?" He said swiftly as usual, trying to hide his concern. 

John thought about lying but this was his perfect opportunity to ask about Sherlock's past. Before he spoke a word he looked at Molly, Mycroft wouldn't say anything in front of her, and John didn't want to worry her. He knew she would panic.

"Perhaps we should talk about this somewhere else." Mycroft suggested as if he'd heard John's thoughts. 

John nodded and followed Mycroft as they left the building, shooting Molly a look of ' I'll explain later, I promise.' before he walked out the doors. They got into the car that immediately drove away from the hospital. Mycroft didn't wait to arrive anywhere and looking straight at Johns eyes, he said simply."What happened to Sherlock?" Without a trace of sarcasm on his voice. 

John was actually surprised by the seriousness on his voice, neither of the Holmes brothers liked showing concern about each other in front of anyone." Right after one of the cases he started to act very strangely, strange even for him. He's not eating, he disappeared for almost two days. He's been having this nightmares, staring blankly at the walls. Mycroft...he's scared,of what I don't know...I have no idea what's happening to him. He is...drifting off." John sounded desperate. 

A shadow crossed Mycroft's face, his eyes grew darker and his jaw tensed. Silence fell around them, only audible sound were the cars passing next to them. John could almost hear the gears turning inside Mycroft's head.

"Dr.Watson, I understand that you care about my brother as much as I do, provably even more but..." Mycroft took a deep breath and continued."There are things about Sherlock that you don't know, John. Things that even Sherlock doesn't know about himself. Moments of his life he doesn't remember...well, moments that he chose not to remember." Mycroft's voice sounded mournful.

"What do you mean that he chose not to remember? What moments? What the hell happened to him?" John remembers Sherlock mentioning before that he 'Deletes' from his mind useless information but that was repressing memories. What could have been that bad that he had to actually repressed the memory of it?

"I promised Sherlock that I would never bring that subject up to discussion ever again. And the least I can do for the sake of our 'Civilized' relationship is to respect that." He looked directly at Johns eyes. Before he could say anything, Mycroft continued." The man that you know is not the brother I grew up with, John. He became what he is know. He was different, he was more...human. He's always been that brilliant, of course, but he used to feel..."He trailed off, and what seemed to be sorrow and/or guilt invade his eyes. 

That last statement confused and pained Watson beyond believe; Anger boiling inside of him, he wanted an explanation. 

"What. Happened. To him, Mycroft?" John asked slowly and angry. 

"Like I said...I can't tell you. It's really not my place to talk about this with you...."John was about to interrupt him but Mycroft continued."But, I supposed I can't stop you from checking his medical records, after all you are a very responsible doctor." He casually pulled out a very thick file from a briefcase and handed it over to him. 

John took the file but before he opened it, Mycroft stopped him.

"What happened to him was cruel and horrible; It was something that his mind wasn't ready to process, He was so young when it happened. This file will change completely the way you look at him, please consider this. He is better with you, he's more...'himself' with you. Please, If you think that what you will read here will change the way you feel about him, please don't read it."

John was completely speechless by Mycroft's warning. He looked down at the file on his hands and for a second he hesitated, but then he looked up at him and with all certainty he answered."Nothing could ever change the way I feel about Sherlock."

There wasn't an ounce of doubt on John's voice so Mycroft relaxed visibly. "I know that if there is someone who can help him is you." His voice was edged with gratitude and hope. 

John looked out the window and saw that they were approaching Baker street, the car pulled over in front of his building and without another word, he got out of the car. The doctor stood in front of the door of their flat, somehow unsure of coming in yet. Sherlock must not find out about the file on his hands, nor that he's investigating about him. He decided it would be better to hide it and read it later. He took a deep breath and fished for the keys on his pocket. As soon as he opened the door Mrs. Hudson came running downstairs, breathless and scared. It took her a couple of seconds to catch her breath and she finally spoke, tears running down her face.

"Sher-Sherlock...I...I don't know what...he's...help him!" She cried, pointing up the stairs with a shaky hand.

John's stomach hit the ground. "No...Sherlock!" He ran upstairs, dropping the file on the table on his way up. In a matter of seconds he was in front of Sherlock's open door."No...Sherlock...What have you done?"


	3. A Ghost From The Past 3a/5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There are things about Sherlock that you don't know, John, Things that even Sherlock doesn't know about himself. Moments of his life he doesn't remember...well, moments that he chose not to remember."

Sherlock's bedroom was completely trashed, books and clothes were scattered all over the place. Johns eyes immediately fell to the convulsing body on top of the bed. Sherlock was unconscious, his whole body was shaking uncontrollably. His face was contorted by pain and marked by tear trails down his cheeks, down on his neck there was at least four nicotine patches and the trail continued down until it got lost under his shirt, his arms were covered as well all the way up to where his sleeves started. 

 

"What have you done?" John whispered in disbelieve, snapping out of his shock; he knew that Sherlock could die at any second if he didn't act quickly. He jumped on the bed and started to tear off all the patches he could find. Sherlock was still convulsing, there had to be more of those things on his skin. John's eyes fell on the half buttoned shirt and immediately ripped it open, Sherlock's chest had at least ten more of the patches, and he was starting shake more violently. John turned his body over and found three more of them on his back. He looked for more on his legs and he, thankfully, found none. Without wasting a second, John dragged Sherlock over to the bathroom, he needed to wash off the nicotine from his skin, right now.

"..ngh...no..n-no...plea-se...ple-ase..s-stop it."Sherlock cried out as John pulled him up and down into the bathtub. 

John's heart broke but he ignored him, he turned on the water, it was cold but he couldn't just wait for the water to warm up. He grabbed the washcloth and started to scrub Sherlock's skin, pretty much until it was almost red. His friend's body started to shake less and less as the water washed away the traces of yellowish nicotine off his skin. Sherlock regained consciousnesses at moments but fainted again, he kept on mumbling stuff, most of it incomprehensible but the rest...were just basically pleas for him to stop, to let him go, to let him die. John didn't knew when he started to cry because the water from the tub confused easily with tears.  
When he was done, Sherlock was just lying there on the bottom of the tub, curled into a small ball, barely conscious, breathing hard and sobbing quietly, again shaking but now because of the cold water and the shock. John took a deep breath and stepped back for a second, falling down on the floor, he sat there for a second. Millions of questions flared up on his mind in a second.

"Why?" He heard Sherlock whisper from inside the tub.

Before John could say anything, the paramedics broke into the bathroom and took Sherlock away. John was still in shock, thankfully Mrs. Hudson called the ambulance and explained everything. John didn't say a word, he just got up from the floor and followed them downstairs. Grabbing automatically the file on the table and his keys, he exited the flat and climbed up to the back of the ambulance. 

The ride was mostly silent, partly because a few streets away from the hospital Sherlock fell into unconsciousness again.

John's mind was basically numb, he ignored the world around him and grabbed Sherlock's hand, holding it tightly. "Don't you dare to die on me Sherlock...don't dare." John whispered. 

The next hours passed in a blur in front of Watson's eyes. The sound of the ambulance, the questions of the doctors and nurses, the grim faces of some patients as they crossed the E.R, more questions. The eerie silence of the waiting room, broken only by the sound of someone weeping, the blinding shade of white of the walls, more waiting, Sherlock was in a coma. He broke down, someone was by his side, holding him, he looked up and saw Mrs. Hudson and Molly, wearing the same pained faces than he. He was angry, all he wanted to do was enter the room and punch Sherlock, that bastard made him cry, it wasn't fair. Why did he tried to kill himself? Why, for one in his psychotic life, tried to find help? 

"He's stable now, one of you can stay if you want." The nurse said, snapping him out of his thoughts. Molly worked on the hospital, she could stay if she wanted, but she didn't, somehow she understood that if Sherlock needed someone, that someone was John and nobody else. As for Mrs. Hudson, she simply brought a tea for his boy and hugged him, telling him that she would be back first hour of the morning. John silently thanked them, moving in slow motion, like a living dead, towards the chair next to Sherlock's bed. 

John always thought that Sherlock looked like a statue sometimes or some kind of ethereal creature. 'Like an angel' he though a long time ago; He never admitted that out loud to no one but himself. Now, more than ever, Sherlock looked like a marble statue; Deadly white and completely still. If it wasn't for the perpetual beeping sound of the machine attached to him, anyone could mistake him for dead. 

The nurses came by now and then to check on Sherlock, he was still in coma. John knew it could have been much worst, he was lucky. The hours passed and John remembered the file, Mrs.Hudson putted it on the table next to him before she left, she had picked up the floor and thankfully she didn't read it. John took a deep breath and grabbed it, now more than ever he need to understand. Unhurriedly he opened the file on his lap and let his eyes take in the words on the pages. The first two pages were about normal illnesses that anyone goes through during their childhood. The next pages about his teenage years were a totally different thing. Broken bones, bruises and cuts, filed next to a restriction order against a boy named 'Tyler Bryson'. After that things only got worst. The next pages were a report of missing persons; Sherlock went missing at the age of fourteen. The next report was a police report, filed 6 months after he disappeared. The following words of the report fell into John's heart like a bucket of acid. His mind took it's time to comprehend the words before his eyes. 

'...The victim was found inside a small room on the basement of the boarding school that he attended. He was chained to the wall, seriously and heavily sedated. The place was completely dark due the lack of windows or any electric light on the room. The place was abandoned when the police came in, no witnesses and no suspects were found. All the blood on the crime scene, according to the lab report, belongs to the victim. Officers had to cut the chains with a bow cutter. We tried to question the victim but he was unconscious, the paramedics took him immediately to the hospital...' 

John took a deep breath and tried not to pictured but it was too late, in his mind crashed the image of a fourteen years old Sherlock, hurt and chained to a wall like an animal. His eyes darted up for a second, looking at Sherlock's face, it was blank but not peaceful. He knew there was more to know; he took another deep breath and continued reading. The next report was from the hospital. 

'Minor fracture on the right side of the skull, concussion, both shoulders dislocated, one dislocated wrist, four broken ribs, cracked pelvis, left leg broken in two parts, internal damage, signs of drug abuse, torture and rape.' Each word stabbed John's heart, he felt tears of anger and impotence form in his eyes. If he ever found the responsible for that he would murder him, in the most slow and painful way he could think of. John would find a way to make him pay. 

It took John a few moments to calm down, slowly breathing out his anger. He looked at the file and saw that behind the police and hospital report there were pictures of Sherlock and the crime scene, he didn't dare to look at them, instead he decided to look at the rest of the file and he noticed that it was only half way into it. The Hospital report continued, apparently, when Sherlock woke up he was still in shock, he didn't spoke or moved for almost a month.  
During his recovery, he didn't showed any signs of emotional and mental improvement from his current state. The doctors recommended mental treatment and Sherlock was transferred to a mental facility the very next day.  
'Archfall Mental Asylum'  
"John, May I have a word with you?" Mycroft's voice startled John. His voice sounded deep with what seemed repressed anger.  
John slowly got up from the chair and put down the file on the table next to Sherlock's bed. He walked soullessly towards the door, shooting one last glance at Sherlock. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out to the hallway and waited for Mycroft to speak.  
“Would you be so kind to explain, what the hell happened?” Mycroft almost shouted, vaguely trying to maintain his calm tone.  
John closed the door behind him and the room was left empty and quiet, save for the sound of Sherlock’s heart beat and the muffed sound of the two men arguing outside. A few seconds after the door closed with a faint ‘click’, Sherlock’s eyes shot open, his cold eyes scanned the room without moving his head too much. He saw his brother and John talking outside, obviously upset, obviously about him. He let out a tired sigh and looked to the table next to him, eyes falling on the file on top of it. His breath got caught on his throat, almost choking; his stomach gave an unpleasant turn as he reached for the file. He looked at the window and saw that they haven’t noticed he was awake yet. Slowly, taking a deep breath, he opened the file, his serpentine eyes flying through the pages, catching each and every word written on the paper. By the time he reached the pictures of the crime scene, he felt his head lighter and his stomach sick, a sudden wave of coldness washed over his body. His hands were trembling and his chest felt heavy, making it almost impossible for him to breathe normally. Memories started to flash behind his eyes, images, sounds, sensations, pain; it all flew back into his mind like a wave. It was completely overwhelming, a painful overload of a forgotten horror.  
“Sherlock?” A slightly panicked voice called from the door, it was John. Mycroft was standing right behind him, panic as clear on his face as in John’s.  
Sherlock looked at them for a second, his eyes falling on the reflection of his own face on the window. He stared at his own face but he wasn’t able to recognize it as his own. That couldn’t be him, that’s not him, it can’t be him.  
“No…”Sherlock whispered, he closed his stormy eyes a second, so many different things were shouting behind his eyes. “Shut up…I’m not…”He said even more quietly; a tear escaped his eyes, rolling down his pale face and finally crashing on one of the pictures. His eyes snapped open, frozen and empty, completely stone-cold dead; he looked up at John and the doctor felt his chest contract in a painful matter. Sherlock’s face was now like a mask, a mask with dead eyes.  
John was breathless and even Mycroft was scared now. It’s been almost 20 years since Mycroft last saw that look on his eyes.

John moved a step forward, attempting to get closer.  
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.  
Mycroft immediately putted his hand on John’s shoulder, stopping him from moving further.  
In a second, Sherlock’s face changed, it contorted with wrath as he threw the file at John’s chest, papers flying all over the place.  
“GET OUT!” He shouted in such a powerful deep voice, it actually scared the hell out of everyone on that floor. 

Mycroft grabbed John by the arm and pulled him out of the room, just in time to avoid the glass of water that Sherlock threw in their direction.  
"I've seen Sherlock like this before and if you don't want a broken bone I suggest you to stay away." Mycroft explained at John, standing in front of the door to prevent him from entering the room. He looked over his shoulder to see Sherlock staring emptily at the papers on the floor, hands still shaking as he ran them through his hair. "What's in there, John, is not my brother and it's not the friend you know." Mycroft said mournfully.  
"What do you mean? He IS your brother and he is my friend and we need to go inside and help him." John said angrily.  
"Believe me doctor, I've taken care of my brother long before you even knew him."  
As they speak, Sherlock's mind was anything but itself, his mind kept on playing the scenes over and over again, months and moths of pain, humiliation and fear. All the things that he managed to forget were now slowly fracturing his mind. He looked out the hallway window, John looked angry, worried and confused, his brother on the other hand, had that look on his face, the same look  
he had before he suggested to their parents that they should lock him up in a mental asylum, 'for his own good' they said. Oh no! Sherlock was not going back to that place. A way out, he must find a way out of this, away from them. Now.  
Slowly he got off the bed and looked outside the window; he was just two stories high, he could make it. Quietly, he grabbed his clothes and stepped out the window, climbing down the column on the side of the building. He landed in the alley and putted his clothes on. His mind was losing it's reasonable sense, he was starting to lose pieces of memories again. His heart was beating painfully in his chest, he was forcing his body to much. He stumbled out the ally and hailed a cab.  
John looked over Mycroft’s shoulder and saw Sherlock wasn’t there anymore. He pushed him aside and rushed into the room, he found the window open and no signs of Sherlock in the room. He walked towards the window and saw him getting into a cab. He turned around and found Mycroft staring at one of the pictures on the floor.  
“We need to find him right now!” John said as he walked towards the door.  
Mycroft didn’t say a word, he just grabbed his phone and texted his assistant. ‘Find Sherlock.-MH’ He walked towards the window and saw the taxi disappearing on the corner of the street. If his brother wanted to hide, it would be impossible for them to find him, but in this state, he didn’t know if it would be easier or harder; all he knew is that they didn’t have much time.


	4. A Ghost From The Past 3b/5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There are things about Sherlock that you don't know, John, Things that even Sherlock doesn't know about himself. Moments of his life he doesn't remember...well, moments that he chose not to remember."

Part B

A figure leant back on the wall of the alley, looking up to the sky above the building, he light up a cigarette and exhaled the smoke. He couldn’t go inside to see Sherlock, not now, he would wait until the visiting hours and he would sneak inside to see him; at least see him for just a second, from the distance as always, of course. 

“Sherlock...” He whispered his name, like a prayer, exhaling the smoke up to the sky. And as if the heavens were listening, on the corner of the building he saw Sherlock, still dressed in hospital clothes, walking on the ledge of the second floor. Thankfully he didn’t saw him. As Sherlock climbed down the side of the wall, he ran to hide behind one of the dumpsters. 

Sherlock, unaware of his presence, made his way out to the street, hailed a cab and drove away in a hurry. That was his signal to move or he would lose him. He walked out the alley and got to his motorcycle, turning on the engine he saw Watson coming out of the building with Mycroft walking right behind him. They lost Sherlock again. Sometimes he seriously considered if they were even capable of even taking care of his Sherlock at all. And yes, he was his, if someone deserved Sherlock was him. He drove away, following the cab to a safe distance. 

He stopped on the red light, getting his phone out of his pocket. He dialed the number and waited for an answer. 

“Hello?” Mycroft’s unsure voice spoke on the other side of the line.

“You failed him, again. Seeing that you are incapable of protecting him, I will take him with me. Don’t look for us; you know that if someone can take care of him is me.” He said in a calm, cold voice. He knew those words cut right through Mycroft’s frozen heart. If he was hurting somehow, good, he deserves it.  
The light turned green again and he continued to follow the cab down the crowded streets. 

John tried to think, he walk down the street, not exactly sure of where he should go. He would try to think of a place where Sherlock would hide, but in the end he realized he had no idea. Baker St. Maybe and just maybe, he went back to their flat, it was unlikely but at least he should check. Sherlock’s mind wasn’t exactly logical at this point. He hailed a cab and hurried the driver to get to his flat as soon as possible.

Sherlock was thankful that Mrs. Hudson decided to go out that morning. He didn’t want to see her crying for what he did the other night. He quietly and slowly, made his way upstairs, grabbing tightly to the rail as he climbed up the stairs. He needs to rest, his body was still very much resentful of the poisoning. He hated feeling weak, helpless. He felt that for such a long time that he thought that feeling had been burned out of his mind. Breathless, he reached the top of the stairs; he didn't hope to make it to his bedroom, so he simply crawled towards the couch. 

“You thought you were so special…always thought yourself above the rest. You are even more pathetic that the rest of us. Nothing more than a circus freak…no, not even that." A shadow smiled, tying his hands above his head.  
"You are worthless. You should feel glad that at least we want to play with you."  
"That little friend of yours from school, he’s my son and you are not turning him into a freak like you. Even he thinks you are a yummy piece of meat to play with. He says that everything you say is deadly boring and useless but that is worth getting your trust; just get you to open those pretty long legs of yours."  
" Do you really think he loves you? No one loves you. Not even your family, they dumped you in this place so they didn’t have to deal with you anymore."  
"They all hate you. They all think it would be better if you were dead."  
"Even you want yourself dead. You hate yourself now, do you? Well, don’t worry, my dear monster, this all ends when you decide to accept that you are a freak that should be put down.” A group of voices chanted in his head.

“Shut up!” Sherlock screamed. Every word, every memory came down to his mind like a lash of a whip. A wave of coldness crawl his skin. His old scars burned like they were made all over again. Inside his mind, their voices screamed like they did back then, hurting his ears and stabbing his heart. Every touch prickled his skin as if the ghost of those hands were still present, and the rotting smell of mud, blood and sweat filled his nose. All those things flooded his mind so vividly, so hauntingly real. Fear and disgust were violently twisting his stomach, he felt his throat closing as he cried, gasping for air. “Please, stop it. SHUT UP!” He would do anything to make this stop. He just wanted it to stop. He could feel his mind cracking like thin ice, he was drowning. “John…” He begged breathlessly. “John…Please…help me. He cried once more burying his face on his hands. 

The voices inside his head starting to laugh, whispering into his hears.  
“He won’t save you.”  
“He won’t come for you.”  
"He doesn't care about you."  
“He doesn’t love you.”  
“You are alone…”

“I am alone…”He breathed out, his voice completely dead.

“No, you are not.” A different voice spoke softly. It sounded so far away but yet so close. It made the other voices shut up but it seemed to come from the same dark corner of his mind. It sounded older though, older than it sounded in his memories, a little harsher and a little more sorrowful, but still... warm.  
Slowly, Sherlock opened his eyes, afraid to find himself still inside the darkness. In front of him he saw someone, someone he forgot a long time ago. Why did he forgot him? He looked into his deep gray eyes; they used to have color, they used to change with the light but…now they seemed empty of all light. That face was older as well, thin and pale like a ghost. His smile was weak, as if it was almost unused. That man in front of him as the ghost of the only friend he had in the past, the only love he ever had. How could he have forgotten the only boy that loved him when no one did? 

“Adrian…”Sherlock whispered. 

The other man smiled, it has been an eternity since he last heard his name from him.

The voices stopped for only a second, as if they had been surprised to see him as well, but as soon as he said his name, they started whispering again, a little louder this time. Sherlock’s face broke into despair again, holding his head in his hands. “Please…make them stop.” He cried.

“Shhh, I’ll make them stop. They can’t hurt you anymore. I took care of them a long time ago. Shhh. Come with me, I’ll take care of you now.” He said softly. He grabbed Sherlock’s face and made him look at him, right in the eye. “They won’t tear us apart again.” He stated that promise. And he would keep that promise as if his life depended on it. He owes that to Sherlock.

“But…John?” He mumbled, feeling lost again, confused. Why did he forgot him too?

“He doesn’t deserve you, he always lets you get hurt and he always leaves you alone. He’s not good for you; he doesn’t know you like I do. You’re my first and only love remember?” He waited for Sherlock to acknowledge what he said, he only nodded weakly. Adrian continued; He had to take advantage to convince Sherlock to go, now that his mind was so fragile, it was cruel and unfair but at least he was doing it for his own good. “Remember what I told you the first time you said you loved me?” Another weak nod from Sherlock, his eyes seemed lost in a distant memory.

It was true, when they were younger, they were in love, but something happened, something intervened, something horrible.  
“When you said you loved me, I promised you that I would keep your heart safe, for it was too fragile and too beautiful to be broken. And I am here to keep that promise.” He said, trying to help Sherlock up the couch. 

“I have no heart.” Sherlock said soullessly. 

“That's because i still have it and you can have mine too if you want it. Now let’s go now, Please.” He started to carry Sherlock towards the exit. 

Sherlock shot a glance back into the flat. His eyes followed the bullet holes on the wall, the scattered papers on the table, and his chair by the fireplace, and at last they fell on John’s chair, right next to his. No…John was there, John was there for him, he could help him, right? "No...John...he...I'm not alone."

Adrian stopped on his tracks, he took a deep breath and looked at Sherlock right in the eye. He was going to have to be cruel. "He will leave you, if he finds out, he will turn his back on you like everybody did back then. I gave you back to you family because you missed them and I thought that they would be able to take care of you, but I was wrong. I trusted you once with them and they locked you up in Archfall and now this." He explained coldly.

Sherlock shuddered at the mention of the mental asylum, another wave of memories washed over his brain. White walls, more needles, a small room, pills, more pain. The image of himself as a teenager, begging on his knees to his parents to get him out of that place, just to be ignored and watch them walk away though the white doors. And he remembers, who helped him escape that place. Adrian.

"No...not again, please." Sherlock curled against Adrian's chest, hiding his face on his neck, like a child. 

Adrian hated himself a lot more now. He was hurting Sherlock even more by reminding him those things but things would be better soon. He hugged Sherlock tightly against his chest and walked downstairs. The doctor would be there in a matter of minutes, they needed to leave right now. Slowly, he made his way out the flat, Adrian's bike was waiting for them outside, he climbed up and offered his hand to Sherlock.

Sherlock stood there, looking up at his building, that place was his home but....He remembers the way he clung to his brother's arm, begging him to help him, and the way his brother shook away his grasp and walked away, leaving alone. He turned around and saw Adrian. Somewhere inside his mind there was something screaming him to stay, but the other voices were just too damn loud to hear it.

"I'll keep you safe, they won't hurt you again, I promise." Adrian assured, grabbing Sherlock's hand, helping him up the bike.

Once Sherlock was sitting safely behind him, started the engine."Hold on tight, angel." He smiled, looking back at Sherlock, he gave him a reassuring smile and before he drove away he gave him a small kiss on the cheek. 

A Taxi stopped in front of 221b, John stepped out of it and stood there, in shock, watching the motorcycle drive away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long!  
> my head is a mess, i'm back in school !  
> asdfghjkl  
> leave me a comment  
> that helps  
> i love you all and thanks for reading  
> next chapter will probably be up on Sunday or Saturday

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading.  
> Please leave a comment :3  
> Love you all   
> *le Hugs*


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